Bukkakeworld Read online

  BUKKAKEWORLD

  variations on a vile and dismal theme

  by Mike Philbin

  Copyright © 2008 by Mike Philbin

  www.mikephilbin.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For more information, please contact: Silverthought Press, 32148 State Route 26, Philadelphia, NY 13673.

  Published by Silverthought Press

  www.silverthought.com

  Cover photograph © Robert Standish

  www.robertstandish.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9815191-5-9

  Four days until

  the worst day

  of your life.

  * * *

  Even before you are fully awake, the first glob of spunk hits your face. It doesn’t fully awaken you. It usually takes more than that these days, you are so tired all the time.

  That first money-shot of the morning is nothing more than a light irritant, like a head louse that is merely scouting about for a suitable place to lay some eggs. You can catch it early and get another forty winks, no problem, crushing it between thumb and forefinger.

  It’s still early in the day. Nothing like the expected deluge that is yet to weigh heavy upon your brow. Regular as clockwork from that point on, the thick warm globs of spunk land on your face, cooling rapidly.

  You draw a pins-n-needles tingling claw across your already well spattered face. Long strings of the stuff stick to your hands and you have to flick it across the room. What you need right now is to get it as far away from you as possible. Get some respite.

  All too soon, you are awakened by an alarming ejaculation at precisely 7 a.m. It comes in quick succession—a repeated assault that seems inexhaustible. Just how many cocks would it need to unleash such a torrent?

  Such is the force of the spunky wake-up call that you dash from your still-warm-cum-covered bed, cursing another day and reaching for the shower head to douse away your sticky outer coating of protein. Into the kitchen and the refuge of breakfast. The radio is broken, its mechanism spent, its transistors, knobs and circuitry worn down by years of self-abuse.

  You eat your cornflakes dry. The look of even semi-skimmed milk first thing in the morning has you running to the bathroom like a whore with morning sickness—time to get down the doctor’s for that very-late-morning-after pill.

  That’s how you try to take the continuous onslaught of cum, with a stupid smile. You can feel it hitting your gormless gums, cooling as it does, making you gag on your cornflakes. How have you survived so long in the corporate arena?

  You finish off your breakfast and don’t bother to wash up. What’s the point when even the walls of your apartment are seeping with spunk and spitting their venom into your face? Your work clothes are already so cum-spattered that you have to change a second time before you finally make it out the door relatively stain free.

  On the Tube, though, the pasty abuse begins afresh. Almost as soon as you step onto the crowded Tube carriage, people reeking of corporate abuse, a glob of it lands on your lapel, its tail adhering to your freshly shaven jaw line. Those who can protect themselves in rubber, a fashion accessory as prevalent today as the hoody, parka or Doc Marten boot was in its day.

  You turn to shout at some rudely spunking fool and a string of it lands in your mouth, its tail tickling the back of your throat. You gag on the foul intrusion, coughing and coughing until your chest aches, and there is set in stone the remainder of the day.

  First few hits of corporate spunk, you learn to keep your mouth open (you really don’t want that shit up your nose, and if it gets in by cruel fate, you certainly don’t wanna inhale that filth into a lung), poised but not gaping. It’s a heady balancing act. In many ways it’s a bit like how you learn to breathe with an aqualung—odd at first, but you get used to it faster than you’d think.

  At the office, you settle into another day of taking it in the face. For now it’s relatively quiet, but it can strike at any time. The swilling bowl of eastern promise. The spunk bucket. You’re there. You’re expecting a boiling gush of it to sear across your face all day long.

  Remember to keep your mouth open, in case, like a look of constant astonishment. Your jaw’s startin’ to ache, but you know it’s for the best—hell, it’s probably what you fuckin’ deserve.

  You have a board meeting late in the afternoon and everyone’s in attendance. The presentation for your departmental end-of-year P&L goes well... The boss is very complimentary. He has a smugness across his chops you can’t remember ever being so transparent, so ugly.

  As the meeting disperses and employees return to their cum-stained cubicles, the boss pours his wrath down on you from high. You are just packing away your charts and your financial reports and you don’t understand what’s happening until the first litre of spunk has cooled on your face.

  You gasp for breath, but it’s no good. Spunk spatters your teeth, wet footsteps trot down your gullet. You close your mouth momentarily and a spiteful strand of it flits across your eye. Involuntary reflex is to slam your eyelid shut but that just makes it worse as more of the salty spew lands on your face. You know at some point you’re gonna have to open up your eye, and there’s nothing worse than the reality refracting property of human stain.

  We are talking a gut-wrenching kaleidoscope of nauseating perspective as the bukkake seers across your eye, layer by layer. Your stomach leaps into your throat and you’re now gulping back acid with the man paste. Your eyes are open because of the contract you entered into when you agreed to take on this job in this corporate world. You daren’t shut them for fear of being in breach.

  You are smothered in spunk yet you know you cannot move. Inch after inch builds up on your face and all the head-shaking in the world is not gonna shake it loose if it continues.

  You start to feel faint from whipping your neck from side. Your brain starts to rebel but you know you mustn’t throw up. That just wouldn’t do. Instant dismissal. You try to hold on to your balance, your position and your life.

  You feel your lips turning blue. But you survive. You have to survive. Your legs give under you and you feel the entire cum-weight land on your face, stamping its sour soul down upon your face, smothering you in its battering volume. But you don’t die.

  You just take it all like the dog you are. You pick yourself up off the boss’s floor and crawl out of his office, with his begrudging permission. You thank him for his courtesy and you promise yourself that next time you won’t be such a fucking take-it-all.

  But even as you step out of the office at 6:00 p.m. with the other sheeple racing for the car park, while you race through the drenching shower of cum gauntlet to the grease-stinking cafés and fast-food outlets, a scowling crowd of cocks appraise your choice of meal in their preferred format.

  You eat your spunk-strewn food and you don’t really mind the salty wetness. A snob would call it an ‘acquired taste’—and this light relief brings a spunky burp of cheer to your otherwise exhausted frame.

  You make it through the meal by some amazing set of miracles and when you arrive at your apartment the hail of spunk continues unabated. Outside, the thunder of spunk clouds showers creamy cascades of badness onto the streets.

  Here in your spiteful bedroom, you lie on your rotten bed covered in the piss and shit of a broken nation. Fungal growths cause your naked cum-spattered skin irritation, but you don’t mind. Your mouth will forever gape like a chick if you don’t take control.

  For hours you endure the spitting and spattering on your face and chest. Litre after litre of human DNA curse your ridiculous mortality. You look around with your clear eye and
you see that once again your room is filling up with this choking paste, this seething off-white morass.

  You can’t bear to think how long it’ll be before you finally con yourself into slumber, if you’ll wake up tomorrow, or if the gallons of rising cum will finally reach up this high, swarming across the mattress and dragging you down into the merciless pit of spunk.

  Is this how life will be forever in Bukkakeworld?

  Three days until

  the worst day

  of your life.

  * * *

  Every day starts like this—a grotesque glob of spunk whacks you across the face. You don’t care where it comes from, inside or outside reality, within or without the dream, elsewhere within fate’s broad spectrum of corporate horror. That one quick ejaculate never fully awakens you; it takes more than that these days. If only sleep would caress you forever in its quilt of flowers and satin and stripe.

  That first spermy wake up call is nothing more than a light irritant, like an itch in a suit of armour, some place you can’t get to, even with The Stick. You grow able to live with that itch, catch another forty winks, survive, until...

  7 a.m.

  Same deluge of spunk every fucking morning. Or is it? Does the same circle jerk of cocks awake you every single day, with nary a change of shift? One wonders if these inveterate cummers are freelancers, you know, skipping gaily from facial to facial, awakening the eye-encrusted inhabitants of Bukkakeworld. But from that time, until the end of another cum-soaked day in the corporation, the thick warm globs of spunk skid across your face, cooling rapidly.

  Your arms are like rods of buzzing rust this morning. As you roll over to swipe the stringy cum-festival off your chops, your dead arms crash against your face. You hear your nose crack ever so slightly. Has it broken again? Will you have another set of churlish looks from those daft, grey employees you are supposed to call ‘colleagues’? Look it up. Look up the term ‘colleague’ and you get back a list that includes ‘class mate’, ‘contemporary’ and ‘equal’. Can you really have this in common with those fools? Those who call you ‘face abuser’?

  You dash to the shower, again cursing this ceaseless attack of spunk. You’re choking already. It comes at you from all sides; you don’t know how or why. You never have enough time to question, so raging is the battle. You take breakfast under a soft-lit grey goo-cloud of condescension, spit, spat, drip, drat. The radio burbles like a cesspit then suddenly belches into spermy life. You reach for it, instinctively, but it’s all slimy and creepy and you end up pushing it off the kitchen top. Spunk bubbles from the shattered side of it, like a man poked in the lungs by a length of rusting iron. A railway spike. A bronze spear. The enamel horn of a narwhal.

  You’ve run out of cornflakes today and outside it’s raining bucket loads of moist, cloying man fat—thrumming against the window like horny gravel. You watch this weary cream drift down, down, down and you think of that septic shit pouring down your worthless little throat forever. Wonder how many litres you inadvertently take into your stomach while trying to stay alive.

  You grit your teeth at another dismal day of battlefront blues. You wonder how the fuck you’re gonna go on or how you put up with this shit at all. But there’s a rainbow at the end of every rain storm, so they say. Your first clue to this is the radio—the deluge no longer pours from it in burps and burbles and belches. The throbbing in your head has diminished, though by no means died down. But you’ve been shown a window, a method of escape. All too soon, though, another spunky insinuation is pouring its greasy scourge upon your living fabric.

  You race down to the front door, where a monster sits panting behind the frosted glass. It’s been a while since you’ve seen one so huge, and you know from prior peril that meeting this beast face to face is gonna hurt like nothing has hurt for quite a while. In the distance, sirens plaintively wail.

  Wiping away a few cheap off-screen shots of spunk, you take a couple of deep breaths to saturate your blood with oxygen before...

  The gaping door billows in the deafening deluge of cum. You’re washed several meters down the tattered hallway and you bang your head on the kitchen door. In races the monster, something sharp and rectangular in its clammy hand awash with cum. You see black eyes of alien abduction. You sense the anger boiling off its cum-sputtering sneer. You reach for the pen, slipping and sliding in the still-warm cum as you clamber and struggle to get to your feet.

  You have just signed your life away. You read Decree Nisi heading the damp missive pulled from its protective sheath like a premature moth.

  You’ve dreaded this day for the last twenty years. Feared that one day it would be final. In reality, it’s been final for years and this soggy scrap of legal documentation only confirms what you already knew about your impotent union. Then why is this so hard? Why are these moments (despite the coating of cum drying to a crust) given more importance than they deserve? Why do these tiniest of moments in your lives turn out to be the most important? What’s the best way to illustrate your triumph over adversity?

  Why, the pen, in the eye. Yes, you see it, the black leering eye of that accusative monster. You see it peering down at you in your slipped-over of slimy shame. You, one quick movement is all it takes, just hand the pen back a little too fast too close to the cornea. Whammo! Another deluge evaporates like sand blown about by a hot wind revealing an intricate mosaic floor you never knew existed.

  You’re learning how to deal with it, good little cum eater, good little take-it-in-the-eye-er, good willing subjugate.

  The train into work is no less oppressive than usual. You read the events of yesterday over someone’s equally cum-stained shoulder. In the crush of the Underground, where you might be shyly fantasising about having your cock rubbed or having some pussy rub up against your thigh, there’s a sudden gush of cum all over your best shirt. This one has blood in it and is marbled with faeces.

  And you thought it couldn’t get worse.

  You don’t puke, though. You’re a fucking man. You daren’t puke—there are far too many puke eaters on this underground train who’d suck you dry were you to show your weakness for the passing of bile and stomach acid through your wobbling cake-hole. They’d leap on you like a pack of fantasy characters, straight-laced and freakishly agile. You’d be on the floor in the cum and dog-piss and pubic hair of a thousand broken deals and you’d have some slavering muzzle all over you like a junky in the emergency ward having his walnut sized stomach pumped to save his life. Except that you wouldn’t survive.

  You survive a sucking only if you’re a suckee BECAUSE THEY ARE THE TRUE UNDEAD.

  You see them when you walk into the office. You’re holding on to the decorative railing like you’re on a small ship in a big sea. The walls are crashing against the rocks. The sun is battering down like a furnace through the windowed ceiling. You’re virtually crucified by the slice-eyed back-stabs of cum that pierce you from every direction. But at least you’re alive. At least you’re not one of the scum-sucking legions of the corporate undead.

  Your boss is only a physical manifestation of corporate hatred. He doesn’t even exist. Look what happens when corporations blow-job each other to smithereens in aggressive take-over wars. The boss of the company, like the head of an ant queen, is the first thing to go when the invaders have usurped your pride and joy, that beast you helped grow from a grain of toe clippings.

  Who even runs these corporations if the boss is so easily expendable? You come to the conclusion your boss doesn’t exist. That’s the truth—he’s a front man for the inner child of the conglomerate beast. Your boss is the undead foetus of the womb of Capitalism. He eats more cum in a day than anyone on his paltry payroll. His big fat cum-swollen belly takes most of the flak so you, the work force, can bear a little paste in the eye of time.

  You start to feel faint at the same time every working day and your brain starts to rebel, but you know you mustn’t throw up; that just wouldn’t do. Instant dismissal. You try to
hold on to your balance and your life as you head into the meeting room, where already the worshipers of his loyal greatness are getting themselves all stiff and vaginal, prepping themselves for the gush of approval for any god-damned piece of shit this jack-ass shunts out of his morbid rectum.

  You take your seat as the peristaltic grind of ass-suck and cock-tease begins to whine like a jet engine before takeoff... How can life go on like this week after week? Month after month. Year after year. Why don’t more corporate lackeys like you go POSTAL more often? What is it that keeps them, and you, from just going berserk, going totally fucking nuts?

  You decide, today, that you’re not gonna take it anymore. But these decisions are never taken lightly. You must be ready to beat off the opposition with any weapon at hand. The whole organisation, it seems, is your enemy. Why have you chosen now to make a stand, you worm, you mollusc, you worthless piece of dried horse dung?

  Two days until

  the worst day

  of your life.

  * * *

  A face full of cum to wake you up first thing this morning, that’s what you earned with yesterday’s little rebellion. How the fuck did you think your pathetic board room shenanigans would play out? Nothing but total cum slaughter?

  They all had you there, abused you in that suffocating board room. The walls dripping with cum. The gleeful look in the board members’ eyes. It’s like they set you up for a fall. Maybe they’re all talking about you in their lunch hour, when they do that nauseous social identity thing you can’t bear to suffer. When they ‘merge’ at the collective level. Your creativity won’t allow it. There truly are better things in this stinking universe.

  Or are there?